


The Adventure of the Spilled Milk

by numberthescars



Series: Semi-Skimmed [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 04:19:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/numberthescars/pseuds/numberthescars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every morning at 7:50 on the dot, he walked in. Coffee shop! AU. SO MUCH FLUFF.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Spilled Milk

At seven-fifty AM on the dot, _he_ walked in. John allowed his head to swivel around, following the man’s progress to his usual table at the back of the small coffee shop. He set his laptop down tenderly on the table whilst he removed his coat. John leaned forward against the counter. He was wearing dangerously slim-cut dark trousers with a peacock blue shirt today. It suited him.

“John! Customer!”

John jerked at Mrs. Hudson’s shriek, turning back to the fidgeting line of people in front of the cash register. He smiled wearily. “How may I help you?”

As anyone who has ever worked in a coffee shop in London knows, the period between seven and nine is rush hour. Harried government types tramped in and out, wrapped so tightly in their own egos that they noticed nothing beyond their daily doses of caffeine and blackberry screens. Mrs. Hudson liked to proclaim proudly that her coffee supplied the brainpower behind about half of Parliament; John liked to grumble in reply that that explained _so much_ about the state of the nation.

But he was different. For the past several weeks, Mr. Seven-fifty had come in at the same time every day, looking exactly like any other businessman with his long black coat and shiny designer pumps. But then he’d go off into the corner to nurse his tea (black in a to-go cup, with three sugar packets carefully self-administered) and stay there all day. At five pm sharp, he’d pack up his laptop and leave without saying a word. He was a mystery.

Of course, it wasn’t just his mysteriousness that caught John’s attention. He had an eye for the pretty ones. Mr. Seven-fifty was a bit older, he thought, probably over thirty, but he wore his age well: with a confident nonchalance that said he didn’t need anyone else. It was exactly the kind of aloof, bordering-on-mean look that drove the girls (and boys, if John was any judge) wild. He wasn’t conventionally handsome, though John personally found his knife-sharp features quite attractive. And while his natural, unfussy dark curls said sensible, the curve of his full and sensuous lips hinted at a wicked humor. His eyes were really the only feature that detracted from his looks; they were flat grey and a touch too close set.

“JOHN HAMISH WATSON!”

John jumped and yelped as the boiling hot soy latté he’d been filling splashed a bit. “Not the middle name, look you made me spill!”

“If you’d been watching what you were doing, my dear, and not daydreaming about Tall, Dark and Handsome in the corner, I wouldn’t have to yell to get your attention,” Mrs. Hudson replied with a pointed glance. John’s ears flushed an angry scarlet, and he very deliberately _didn’t_ turn to see if Mr. Seven-fifty had heard. He slapped a lid on the latté and pushed it towards the impatient customer, who instantly grabbed it and ran out the door with nary a word of thanks. _Bloody politicians_.

John heaved a heavy sigh and returned to the register. Sighing was one of the few things he flattered himself quite good at. He sighed when his sister visited and when his mum called, when his first in anthropology turned out to be worth its weight in toilet roll, when first one employer turned him down, then the next and the next and the next…he had another interview this afternoon, but he didn’t have high hopes. He was nearly twenty-five, and he had yet to be gainfully employed as anything more than a glorified busboy.

John snuck another look at the man in the corner. Tall, Dark and Handsome, as Mrs. Hudson liked to refer to him, was frowning at his laptop with great concentration. As John watched, he sucked his— _full, pouty, criminally kissable_ —lower lip between his teeth for a moment, then pushed it out again. John swallowed and quickly looked away. His shirt collar suddenly felt a bit too tight.

Soon enough, the torrent of customers slowed to a trickle, and John could breathe again. There was a spill by the milk and sugar station, so he went to the back to get a mop. Mrs. Hudson started when he walked in and quickly slammed shut the account book sitting open on her desk. “Oh, hello dear,” she greeted him distractedly and without her usual enthusiasm.

“Are you alright?” John asked.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine!” she replied over-brightly, turning to beam at John.

“It’s the mortgage, isn’t it.” He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Is there anything I can do?”

She blinked furiously. “Thank you dear, but there really isn’t. I appreciate your offering though,” she added with a small smile. It was more genuine this time. “If only I could get someone interested in one of the upstairs flats! You don’t know anyone, do you John?”

John shook his head. “Sorry, none of my mates could afford it.”

“Yes, especially in this economy.” She sighed. “I never thought I’d care so much about keeping this place,” she mused. “I was quite the adventuress in my younger years. Wanderlust, you know. But now…with my hip…”

John nodded. “It’s nice to have a place to call home,” he agreed. He’d always thought of himself as a homebody, though lately he’d been hankering for a bit of excitement. His thoughts strayed again to Mr. Seven-fifty in the corner. Something about the man reeked of thrill and danger, even when he was doing something as mundane as sipping a cup of tea. John often wondered if he could be working for MI-5 or 6. He’d already featured in not a few of John’s more Bond-infused fantasies…

Mrs. Hudson coughed and John blinked. She smiled knowingly at him. “Why don’t you just ask him out, dear?” she said.

John didn’t even bother to ask how she’d known the direction of his thoughts. You don’t spend your time catering to MPs day in and day out without picking up a few tricks. “I couldn’t,” he explained, reaching around her for the mop and bucket. “He’s a regular, I can’t risk losing one of your best customers. Plus, we don’t know anything about each other. I don’t even know his name.”

“It’s your loss dear,” Mrs. Hudson tutted, following him back out into the shop. “But I don’t know what’s gotten into young people these days, so afraid to take a risk.”

John winced at the jab. Always nice to hear your 70-year-old boss thinks you’re lame. “Right. I’ll just go mop up then.”

“Thank you, dear.”

John sighed and filled the bucket. Mrs. Hudson was right of course, but the idea of actually asking the man out filled him with dread. John wasn’t usually bashful about dating—he’d pulled before without difficulty, both men and women, and he’d had a few serious relationships. But this was _work_ , not a pub or a party, and that made it somehow different. Besides, he had no idea if Mr. Seven-fifty was interested in men. Some blokes got tetchy if you even implied the idea; he didn’t think his currently fragile ego could take being cursed out in the middle of the shop.

Someone behind John skidded on the slippery floor and grabbed him haphazardly around the neck to keep from falling. John stumbled forward and choked, dropping his mop.

“Ack! Are you alright?” he gasped once he could breathe again. John reached up to massage his throat, turning as he did so. It was Mr. Seven-fifty.

“Yes,” Mr. Seven-fifty replied curtly. His eyes raked over John. “You’re not injured.”

It wasn’t a question exactly, but John answered anyway. “No, thanks,” he chirped brightly. _Wait, that sounds weird, it’s like I’m thanking him for almost strangling me…_

“I mean, I’m good,” he corrected self-consciously.

“Let me pay for the damages,” the man said, and reached into the pocket of his suit jacket.

“You don’t need to do that!” John exclaimed in alarm. “I’m fine, really. I won’t even need a doctor for a little thing like this.”

“I meant for the cleaners,” the man replied, raising an eyebrow. John looked down.

 _Oh shit_.

He must have knocked over the milk jugs when he’d stumbled forward, because his— _damn expensive, interview-ready_ —trousers were drenched in milk. So were his only pair of non-trainer shoes. He hadn’t even noticed.

The horror on his face must have shown, because he heard the other man chuckle. John looked up again. “Reconsidering?” Mr. Seven-Fifty said, smirking down at him. It occurred to John that he was really very tall.

“No, thank you,” John answered, straightening to attention. He attempted to exude an air of self-assurance, a difficult task to accomplish in shoes that squelched with milk whenever he moved. “I do my own laundry.”

“You’ll miss your interview if you do,” the man observed. “Though I would cancel it anyway, if I were you. You won’t be hired.”

Good thing he’d already dropped the mop, or he’d have lost it a second time and that would just be embarrassing. “What—how—did you hear me talking to Mrs. Hudson about that?” he finished rather lamely.

The man sniffed. “That would hardly be necessary. Mere observation can tell me all I need to know.” Catching John’s curious stare, he elaborated. “Your trousers. I’ve never seen you wear them before, suggesting either that they are a recent acquisition—unlikely, given the average hourly wage of café employees—or that you have chosen them today for a specific purpose.” John was pleasantly surprised that Mr. Seven-Fifty found him interesting enough to monitor his wardrobe choices. "Your overall appearance is too formal for work, so, you anticipate a change of venue later in the day. Could be a social event, but based on age, education, and socio-economic status, it can safely be assumed that you prefer casual social gatherings. So, career-related—a job interview. Obvious.”

John’s jaw was hanging open. “That’s brilliant!” he exclaimed. “Fantastic.”

The man seemed startled by John’s reaction. “Thanks,” he muttered uncertainly.

“How d’you know I won’t get the job though?” John pressed. Milk puddled forgotten at his feet.

“Given your familiarity with the workings of this establishment,” Mr. Seven-fifty continued, more eager now that John had expressed his enthusiasm, “you have been under-employed since university. Job prospects are low. Still, you decided to come into work this morning rather than taking the day off to prepare. Thus, you anticipate that they will give the position to someone better qualified.” He shook his head. “A poor attitude to take to a job interview, John. No one will hire you like that.”

John blinked. He was pretty sure he’d been insulted along the line at some point, but that didn’t concern him now. “You know my name?”

Mr. Seven-fifty rolled his eyes skywards. “What must it be like inside your funny little head? It must be so _boring_.” He jabbed a finger at the strap of John’s apron. John glanced at it.

Ah. Nametag.

“Riiiight.” He looked back up at the— _gorgeous, brilliant, funny—_ man in front of him, and tried to prevent himself from giggling and ruining the moment. He had a disastrously high-pitched giggle. “You must think I’m such an idiot.”

“Yes,” Mr. Seven-fifty returned without hesitation, but he gave John an appraising look. “But less so than expected. And you make good tea.” He nodded once as if he had come to a decision. Reaching forward, he gripped John’s right hand firmly.

“Sherlock Holmes. How do you feel about the violin?”

 


End file.
